


the science of touch

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22548580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: He loves this gentle, breathtaking man so deeply, so fiercely that there are not nearly enough ways to show it adequately.Letting John have this is one of them.John likes touching Harold. Harold is learning to like being touched.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 9
Kudos: 126
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	the science of touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/gifts).



Touch is a complicated matter for Harold—always has been. Oh, on an intellectual level, he is well-aware that humans require touch, connection, skin pressed gentle and warm against skin. Rarely, however, does he find someone whose touch is not invasive, unnerving. The secret of what his body feels like beneath somebody else's palms is as fiercely guarded as any of his others. It is difficult to trust others with that data.

He was not expecting John Reese to be one of the small number whose touch he _allowed_ , even welcomed. But the man passed through so many of his other boundaries, finding the most minuscule cracks in Harold's walls and slipping in like smoke. Of course he made it through this one as well. A squeeze of the shoulder here, a careful—sometimes too careful—pat on the back there, building into more. John acted oblivious to the way Harold froze up back then, but Harold knew—knows—better. John is nothing if not totally aware of Harold's reactions, and there wasn't a limit John wouldn't test, until his touch became sincere.

One day—and Harold isn't sure which one it was—he stopped freezing under John's hands.

One day—and Harold does know this one, can recall that first hesitant kiss with crystal clear perfection—casual touch became something else entirely.

John never hesitated to touch him before, and he definitely doesn't now. These days, Harold welcomes the press of John's mouth upon his own. He slips eagerly into John's embrace as chapped lips steal the air from his lungs and rough stubble scrapes his skin most deliciously. John floods his senses, the gunpowder and sweat smell of him, the salt and coffee taste of his tongue, the tantalizing heat of his broad, bare body. His large, callused hands slide up the length of Harold's back, wandering over skin that is just starting to prickle with sweat, avoiding the scars he knows Harold doesn't want him to touch. It's astonishing how kind those hands can be, how reverent.

How playful, too, Harold thinks, as they slide further down, cupping the swell of his rear end and giving it a squeeze. Harold gasps into John's mouth, making John chuckle. Emboldened, John kneads the sensitive flesh of Harold's ass, teasing the cleft with light, maddening skims of his long fingers, sending glorious shocks to the heat starting to settle low in Harold's belly. Harold arches his hardening cock against John, ignoring the protests of his hip and back, and John grinds briefly against him then moves his hips away.

Harold breaks away from the kiss with a huff, panting. "You are—" _going to be the death of me one day_ flits through his head, but oh, no, he cannot say that. John does not take words referencing his death well, even when they are meant in jest. "—an absolute menace."

"Yeah," John says, with a shameless little grin, and nips Harold's bottom lip, making Harold hiss. Immediately, John soothes the mild sting with a hot swipe of his tongue and another brief kiss. "You like it, though."

Well. Harold cannot exactly deny that, can he? Not when he invited John to his oldest apartment for dinner after they resolved Leon Tao's latest absurd, near-fatal crisis. Not when he allowed John to undress him, and to kiss so much of his exposed skin along the way. Not when he lets John take off his glasses for him and set them aside. Not when he goes so willingly when John nudges him toward the bed, sinks down and spreads out upon it, atop a supportive pile of pillows, offering his body to John's touch.

"I do," he says, as John joins him, straddling Harold's thighs, careful not to put any weight on Harold's legs. This time, Harold is the one who reaches out, running his hands down John's torso, down his scarred, magnificent chest and belly. John holds still, save for his breathing, his eyes fluttering closed as Harold admires his strong muscles and elegant body. "Oh my goodness," Harold says, "you are beautiful."

"Not like you." John looks back down at him, eyes filled with adoration. "Not even close."

Harold hums noncommittally—now is not the time to vocalize his insecurities—and lets his hands wander like John's. He traverses the maze of smooth skin between John's scars, careful not to put pressure on the myriad bruises spread across his torso, then brushes over the streaks and starbursts of pink and white as well. John's hot, damp flesh yields slightly under palms and fingers, a healthy softness over the firm, powerful muscles, and Harold's heart swells with fondness. With one finger, he draws a wide, invisible cartoon heart over John's real one—a silly compulsion, but an irresistible one once the idea occurs to him, and it brings a tiny smile to John's kiss-reddened lips. A smile—what a precious gift. Harold's own heart trembles. Those smiles of John's are becoming more common these days, yet they never fail to bring Harold's heart to its knees. He loves this gentle, breathtaking man so deeply, so fiercely that there are not nearly enough ways to show it adequately.

Letting John have this is one of them.

It's no surprise when John's hands find his body again, curving loosely around his ribs. "I like looking at you," John says, running his hands up and down Harold's sides, spreading his fingers as far as they will go—to feel more, Harold supposes. "Like touching you." He reaches Harold's chest, and he runs his fingers through the patch of graying hair spread across it in a slow, shapeless course. "Like being with you."

"And I like being with you." Harold lets his affection show in his smile—and, oh, he most likely looks utterly besotted, he suspects. But how can he help himself? He _is_ besotted, in love with John to a degree that makes him foolish. "And looking at you is hardly a chore."

With a waggle of his eyebrows, John drags his thumbs over Harold's nipples, sending a shudder of need through Harold's abdomen. He inhales quietly, clutching John's hips, and John smirks and runs the rough pads of his fingers in circles over Harold's nipples with a touch that's far too light. Each stroke makes him shiver, makes his belly go tense, his cock throb and beg for more.

"John..." There's a naked note of pleading in Harold's voice that he doesn't like, but John seems to love, judging by the look of poorly-feigned innocence that takes over his face.

"What?" John says, moving on, deftly avoiding Harold's nipples as he strokes Harold's chest, moving downward. Harold groans with frustration, and John's expression shifts to one of pure delight. Harold doesn't have the heart to scold him, even jokingly, or to take over. That would be easy. All he'd have to do is wrap his fingers around John's erection, stroke the lovely and sensitive cock jutting up against John's belly, and John would melt so beautifully. But John is enjoying himself, indulging himself with this. How could Harold do anything to diminish that?

Roaming hands find Harold's belly, and, just for a moment, Harold tenses. He's horribly ticklish, and John is feeling playful. While John is on the very short list of people he's let tickle him since he's reached adulthood, that would neatly kill this particular mood. But through some magic, or perhaps years of observation coming to fruition, John's palms on his abdomen are enjoyable. They move with reverence over flesh that's gone too soft for Harold's liking over the years, soft pressure sending pleasant shivers through Harold's core. With a sigh, Harold lets his own hands fall to his sides, and John's smile widens further.

John likes the shape of him, for some unfathomable reason.

It boggles Harold's mind—the idea that John truly enjoys this mediocre old body of his, that someone so conventionally attractive finds his form pleasing. If it were anyone else, Harold would doubt their sincerity, but the sheer pleasure in John's eyes cannot be faked. He looks upon Harold with joy, caresses Harold's rounded midsection with awe, and Harold finds himself unwinding under the worshipful path of John's palms, accepting and welcoming the contact. He swears he can feel the care radiating through his abdomen like the warmth from John's skin, as comforting as it is arousing. A flight of fancy most likely, and yet he feels so very important. Cherished. Perhaps even worthy of it.

Inevitably, John's hands inch closer to the start of Harold's own scars, the spattering of shrapnel marks and lines of surgical incisions traveling toward and down his hip. Harold's eyes clench shut. There are some things he does not wish to face, even in the sanctuary of John's grasp. But John doesn't linger, moving back toward the middle of Harold's belly instead. An unwilling sigh of relief slips out, and John bends down and kisses Harold's forehead, his whispered, "I know," brushing light over Harold's damp brow.

John kisses his closed eyelids, the curve of each cheekbone, and Harold lets his eyes drift open again. The fondness in John's gaze, pure and sweet, takes Harold's breath away.

"Hey there," John says, and kisses the tip of Harold's nose.

Tension and dread evaporating, Harold smiles back and says, "Hello."

"You're really pretty." It's an absurd sentiment—to Harold, anyway. He lets out an undignified snort. "You are." John chuckles, but the look in his eyes says he fully believes it. "I told you, Harold," he chides, "I like looking at you."

"And touching me," Harold says.

"Yeah." John rubs noses with him, then kisses his lips, but flits away before Harold can kiss him back properly. "Want to make you feel good." He drops another kiss on Harold's mouth. "Happy."

"You do." Harold reaches up and traces his fingers down John's dear face, fingers skimming lightly down John's cheek, his stubbled jaw. "You make me...there are truly no words for how happy you make me feel."

John looks away, back down at Harold's belly, the faintest flush across his cheeks. Oh, he doesn't take praise well at all, not even when it's true. But Harold takes advantage of his downcast eyes, seizing the opportunity to trail a finger through the black fan of John's eyelashes. Such long eyelashes—they always have captivated Harold, even before he acknowledged the maelstrom of feelings that had been developing. His lashes, his eyes—the stormy blue-gray color of them, how much they show in the rare moments John lets his phenomenal guard down, how they light up when John is happy, how they soften when they look at him.

"You make me happy, too," John whispers, almost inaudibly, like he's confessing a secret—no. Like he is afraid this happiness will be snatched away from him. Understandable. Joy is such a fragile, ephemeral thing for the both of them. But, for the moment, Harold can promise him a fraction of it.

He drops his hand back down and settles against his pillows with a happy sigh, letting himself be wanted and exposed. John understands, lips curving in a smile again, and resumes his exploration, like he's trying to memorize Harold's shape beneath his touch—like he wants to know the exact curvature of Harold's belly, the temperature, the level of softness, all of it.

Perhaps someday, Harold will even permit John to explore the places he loathes most, let John lavish every scar with the same worshipful attention. There is no doubt John will treat each one kindly, as though they are not the vivid reminders of his greatest failures and regrets, his greatest losses written in bold upon his skin. Not yet. Not now, when he feels so warm and wonderful inside, an uncomplicated sort of pleasure suffusing his body and settling in the unhurried arousal in his core. But someday, maybe.

"Yeah," John says, still just as soft, and repeats, "You make me happy, too."

His hands wander downward, avoiding Harold's scars as he descends the curve of Harold's belly. Anticipation coils up tight in the space deep below John's hand, hot but still not unbearably urgent—not yet.

Then, John's hands find Harold's cock, and Harold sucks in a sharp gasp as long fingers wrap around his length, the other hand cupping his balls.

"Especially when you look like that." John tightens his grip, sliding his fingers along Harold's cock, and Harold bites back a groan at the sensation spreading through him, hot and tight and electric. "Yeah, like that. That's a good look for you."

"An incorr—" John moves his hand again, and Harold breaks off with a hiss and a ragged breath. "An incorrigible menace."

"How can I help myself?" John moves away, just long enough to retrieve the lubricant, then takes hold of Harold again with a tight, slick grip that feels _incredible_ , leaves Harold gasping even more. "You're really hot."

"You have strange taste—" John runs his thumb over the head of Harold's cock, teasing the slit, and Harold inhales sharply. "—in—oh, goodness. In men." Oh, John is quite good at this. Harold's body is not the most cooperative, but John has learned how to work with it, how to bring him to full arousal and drive him mad and get him _close_. One hand moves with confidence along Harold's cock, with the pressure and pace John knows Harold likes, switching things up to tease every now and then. The other cradles Harold's balls, rubbing them when his rhythm falters, making Harold's insides feel taut as a bow string and his body quiver.

"Classy taste," John says, turning his hand just right, making Harold bite back a groan. Harold never has been very vocal in bed, always private and restrained even in this, but John gets him closer to more wanton vocalizations than anyone ever has. "You'd probably say 'refined.'"

"No," Harold says, and it comes out strangled, breathy. "I thought we already estab— _oh_ —I said your taste is stra—" John speeds up a tad, and it feels _marvelous_. "—oh, yes, like that."

Chuckling, John quickens his pace further, abandoning all pretense of slow and careful exploration. Harold's hips make small, immediately-terminated thrusts—the best one of them can do, involuntary painful motion at war with the limits of his body. Of course John notices, and apparently decides it's time for a change.

Before Harold can be disappointed by John's hands moving to his hips and John himself withdrawing, his cock is engulfed by lush, wet heat. He gets out a ragged, "Oh, god," as the tight grip of John's mouth sucks him down, and starts to move in a way that would certainly hurt if John wasn't always so aware of his body's missteps and ready to mitigate them. He holds Harold's hips down firmly, but gently, and pins Harold's legs in place between his knees. It's amazing how John's dangerous strength can be used for such care. In gratitude, one of Harold's hands finds its way into John's hair, slipping arrhythmically between dark, silky strands, nails scratching John's scalp. John makes a pleased sound that reverberates from Harold's cock to his belly, and sucks harder.

What's often seen as an act of debasement is as much an act of devotion as the rest of John's exploration of his body, Harold thinks—and an act of faith on his own part to allow it. It feels incredible, yes, the liquid heat of John's mouth seeming to consume all his senses, reinvigorating a system that Harold once thought had lost its ability to enjoy such stimulus. But—oh, god, it is difficult for him to think like this. But he finds a companion rather unnecessary for achieving sexual pleasure, sometimes even unwanted. All that is required to invite someone beneath his clothes, to grant them permission to touch his aching body, to give them enough trust even for this—well, he lost his capacity for meaningless sex decades ago.

John treats this permission like a gift, like a privilege he wants to keep. He sucks in the way he's learned Harold likes—the slow, luxurious rhythm, the flicks of tongue along the shaft and head, not even the slightest hint of teeth. Soon, Harold is whimpering quietly and getting closer and closer, unable to even keep his hand entwined in John's hair. He lets it fall, clutches at the bedsheets until his knuckles ache. His body is consumed by John, the heat of John's wet mouth felt everywhere, strongest in the corner of his mind pleading for what he knows is coming soon. _"You're so good at this,"_ he thinks of saying, but instead says, "You're so good," and John makes a broken noise down low in his throat that goes straight to Harold's chest and twists like the sharpest blade. How, Harold wonders, can someone so breathtaking in spirit not recognize his own majesty?

With a fumbling, trembling touch, Harold strokes John's hair again, saying, "You're so good to me. I don't...I don't know if you recognize how difficult this is for me, but I—"

John makes another pained noise and swallows him all the way down, swallows around the length of him, wrecking his ability to be eloquent. It takes great effort to say, "I am quite glad that you are a part of my life," with John bringing him so close to the edge, but Harold manages, barely. "I love you," however, comes out easily, trailed by a stream of babbled, likely-incoherent praise. The thought _in coitus veritas_ drifts through his head—pretentious nonsense, admittedly, though not without merit. Deep inside, in a more coherent place, Harold hopes John knows what he says is not about the sex, not about the numbers, but about _John_ , about how precious and cherished he is, how incredible, how loved. Then Harold can do nothing more than let go, give his mind over completely to the feeling of John pulling back and going down again, to the obscene sounds of John's miraculous mouth on him, to wet and heat and _John_.

It takes longer for his body to catch up with his mind and topple over the brink, for him to tense and tremble everywhere, for the pressure of John's big hands and the way John holds himself so carefully over him and the hot and marvelous friction of John's mouth to overwhelm him entirely. He comes with a shattered sound, all the breath pouring from his lungs as the intricate cacophony of sensations and internal processes overwhelms him.

Eager—oh so eager—John swallows around him, drinking down every spurt, guiding Harold through the peak of his orgasm until it meets its blissful, breathless end.

He is only peripherally aware of what happens next, of John letting go of his spent cock, then pressing soft kisses along the wet length of it and the tip before withdrawing, each one sending feeble little aftershocks through his nerves. There are distant thoughts of reciprocating, but John moves away too quickly for Harold's slow and floating mind to command his body.

"Hey," John rasps, and Harold blinks his eyes open, and finds John straddling his hips again, holding Harold's glasses in one hand, his own tall cock in the other. His mouth is wet and shining, lips red and swollen and curved into a teasing, joyful smile as he slides Harold's glasses into place. When John speaks again, the new roughness in his voice is unmistakable—and unspeakably sexy. "Know you like to watch."

Harold groans faintly, his own cock giving a weak twitch—good heavens, he _does_ love to watch—but nothing else is happening on that particular front. He reaches out, wrapping a hand loosely around John's, barely any pressure at all, and lets John propel himself over the edge. It doesn't take long. John comes all over himself, spurts of white spattering his belly and chest, some dripping onto their hands. It is a visual worthy of pornography—the pained tightness in blue eyes gone dark with need, the gaping red mouth, the handsome man with his hand on his cock. But this is _Harold's_ visual to keep, to cherish. Only he gets to see what John looks like as he comes these days, how incredible he looks, and it sends a possessive thrill through the post-coital fog. Not even his Machine sees this.

He gets to have this, and everything else John gives him that is even more wonderful.

After John cleans them both, they lie together, Harold on his pillows, John's head on his chest. The term "afterglow" seems inordinately apt for the moment, he thinks—the lazy quiet, the happy calm. For the first time in far too long, Harold feels relaxed, even good, his body and mind both at ease.

John draws meandering, amorphous patterns through the hairs on Harold's chest and belly, fingers moving slowly, not so lightly they irritate. Harold holds him, a hand splayed low on John's belly, and strokes John's hair. His fingers comb through the impossibly soft strands, and with every pass over John's scalp, John seems to settle further—especially when Harold's nails find that one spot John likes best.

Neither says a word for the longest time. It's such a nice evening, and Harold is loath to disturb the peace of it. He is comfortable, nearly pain-free, happy. Moments like this are too rare, and he wants to extend it for as long as possible. Every movement of John's fingers upon his skin, every stroke of his own hand through John's hair, every shared breath is something to be cherished. Harold is beyond grateful for all of it.

They weren't supposed to wind up here, but he is so glad that they did.

"This is nice," John says, his voice more compliment than interruption to the silence, words warm on Harold's skin. Such a succinct, uncomplicated way to describe it, yet perfect.

"It is."

Harold feels John's lips curve into a smile, then John kisses over Harold's sternum and says, almost shyly, "Love you." Harold's heart flutters like it's the first time, like a young man a third of his age.

Tomorrow, this could all be ripped away from him, but he cannot let himself think of that now, not in detail. Not while they are lying safe and warm in his bed, whole and content, free from duty and worry. There's no need to complicate this with their respective traumas and futures. Tonight is a night for being together, for basking in the feeling of each other's skin and presence, for touching each other, until dog or Machine inevitably demand their attention.

"I love you, too, my darling," Harold says, and he feels John smile again.


End file.
